


5 times she met him +1

by Dead Cacti (TinyStarling)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Gen, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyStarling/pseuds/Dead%20Cacti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is a thing to make someone feel better. Basically Eleven meets himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times she met him +1

FIVE TIMES WHERE SHE MET HIM +1

 

**(1) The moment before everything**

The Doctor’s young as the stars, and she’s as old as the moon. Well, a few moons, but not very so old as all the moons put together. The stars aren’t telling anyone her age anyway. She’s done a lot of thing in her life, but the first time she met him, well, it was an interesting thing, and her TARDIS got ideas.

When she first met him for the first time, it was his first time meeting her as well. Only not. She was there again. Two of her is pushing it, and she sees her passing, with the same long burnt chocolate hair and the mint green suspenders and the one blue heel, one polka dot with orange. Nice to know she hadn’t lost those shoes.

She winks at herself, and mouths, ‘Good luck. Rassilon knows.’ She remembers being her, and it was only a dozen or so years ago. Gallifrey, that man’s a strange one.

Well, she knows. Strange is good. At least it’s not boring!

 

**(2) The first time**

The first time that she remembers meeting him was on a moon. It was on a moon, one that wasn’t particularly reminiscent of Earth’s Luna at all, considering there was veritable and happy pink vegetation (which was sentient) and things like large yellow cephalopods that walked-slithered-hopped around (which weren’t). It was still a lovely place to visit, even after the humans got a hold of it.

Besides, their queen-mother plant was a grateful one. She made for some good conversation. “Stay,” she told her TARDIS. “Be a good boy and stay.” He turned blue and boxy for the spite of it, she knew, and well, the Doctor wasn’t going to be bested by her own TARDIS.

She walked to the queen-mother’s palace/fence to find a man shouting at a guard. He looked distinctly distraught and also, very familiar.

“Can I help you, gent?” she asked, confident strides in her heels.

He’s not particularly cool, she thinks, with his flabby chin and his suspenders. (Hers were better.) His hair was a bit neat. Baby-faced, she can’t help but think, but she doesn’t say that. What she does say is, “I like the bowtie.”

He beams. “Thank you,” he fiddles with it, emphasizing the redness. He turns back to the guard and starts yelling at him again, “Do you know who I am?”

She shrugs. The Doctor recognizes the guard and waves, “Hello, Mathialowindyny’e!”

He smiles back, or well, as much as a T-6 (magenta-ish) heliocenthrop can. “Doctor,” he vocalizes. “The queen-mother has been expecting you.”

The man, who looks time lord, but is probably human, since the whole race has the audacity to claim their take on the form’s unique, and no one can tell without some of those messy bodily fluids or special glands in the brain are involved, is outraged. Outraged and flabbergasted.

Or both. Or neither. Emotions are complicated. Humans are complicated. So, logically, the most complicated things of all are a human’s emotions.

He turns around, facing her, “You, but,” his fingers go in strange directions from her hair to her nose to her suspenders to the Doctor’s freckles. “But I’m the Doctor!”

“I assure you,” she says, “I’m the Doctor.”

They size each other up again.

“You’re me!” they both shout, realization, synchronization realized. “But parallel! Perpendicular!”

The Doctor tells the guard that the Doctor is with her, and much tea (and solving a pollen problem) commences.

It’s one of the best days of her life. Their lives, too, she assumes.

**(3) The next time**

The next time they meet, the Doctor lets the Doctor meet his TARDIS. They’re standing outside of her (which is strange, but hey, the other her is a man, too.)

It’s a bit forward. It doesn’t matter. The rules of etiquette are what they say they are. Even so, she has to ask, “Why’s she mad at you?”

“Excuse me?” the Doctor huffs, not liking the insinuation. “Excuse me? Are you implying—“

The Doctor waves it off, “Mine doesn’t do the blue box unless he’s angry.”

“The chameleon circuit’s finicky,” he says, which warrants a very strange look from her. ”Oh, yours isn’t?”

She shakes her head, wondering how he scored in technical classes. “Not at all. He’s just moody. You know how men are.”

“Hey! I take offense to that,” he says, pushing some outside buttons, though he could reply to whatever his TARDIS said in his head, like a proper pilot.

The door wouldn’t open. “She lock you out?” the Doctor asks. She turns to the other TARDIS. “Why don’t you ask her nicely?”

The TARDIS hums in appreciation. “Oh, have you not been taking good care of her?” she has to say, very appalled. “Oh, you poor thing.”

The Doctor has the very distinct feeling that something’s been done that he doesn’t understand, but, “I take plenty good care of her!”

“How about you and I go have a girls’ day?” the Doctor asks the TARDIS, though she makes sure to mark the co-ordinates. “Stops you with the brakes on? Oh, that must be murder.”

He’s left alone, and he waits an hour for them to come back. The Doctor thinks this must be what it feels like to be cheated on. It’s not very fun.

She comes back after a day at a spa that did wonders for both of them, and the TARDIS asks if she could stay a bit longer. The Doctor has to go home to her own TARDIS, but they could meet again. It was fun.

When she waltzes out, she tosses the keys to the Doctor, who looks like that one statue, on a rock. She can’t remember the name of it just then, and the keys seem to shatter him.

“Weren’t these—“

“In your pocket, yes,” the Doctor winks. “They were.”

 

**(4) That time**

Her TARDIS has been surly as of late, and the Doctor can’t figure out why. Why in the world would he be angry? “Men,” she huffed, and she left out the door, without even her coat.

She bumps into the Doctor, of all people, but she gives him a hand up and everything, just because she’s such a gentlewoman.

The thing about her was, “You’re me again. Only not me, of course.”

She shakes her long hair, brown as burnt chocolate and a thousand less times as deadly. “Of course I am,” she says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “And you’re me. Only not me. Gods of us all, your chin. It’s ridiculous. I didn’t say that last time.”

“My chin’s ridiculous,” the Doctor repeats, offended. “My chin is ridiculous?”

“Yes it is,” she says, completely serious.

“What about your nose,” the Doctor counters, and he feels self satisfied with himself. With his smile that smug, he knows that at least sometimes, he has the upper hand.

“It’s perfectly adorable,” the Doctor says in retaliation. She’s right, of course, her nose is perfectly adorable. It should have its own hat.

There’s a blue box behind her, and the Doctor suddenly says, “That’s my TARDIS.”

“No, that’s my TARDIS,” the Doctor says, defending herself. “My TARDIS. He likes to stay in that shape for no reason whatsoever, but he’s emotional. It’s not even like the chameleon circuit is broken.”

“My girl, over there,” the Doctor argues, more than a little affronted, “Is the best. No competition whatsoever.”

“We’ll see about that,” the Doctor says. “How about a quick race?”

“We’re not Prydonians anymore,” the Doctor frowns, but then that quickly turns into the biggest smile. “Challenge accepted.”

(She wins.)

**(5) Another time**

She’s not very happy about today, not at all, and it’s no one’s fault but her own.

The Doctor’s in a bar, and she almost never drinks. It’s a nice place in some cluster, very cosmopolitan. Never, at all, and she has a vodka or three and another Gargleblaster, and she’s utterly plastered enough that she wants to go back to her favorite drink, the one that doesn’t exist anymore because half the people who knew it are dead and the other half even deader.

The Silurian bartender looks at her as if she’s grown eight heads spontaneously, since she’s obviously one of the hyrandion races, with the human phenotype looks going on for her. The Doctor orders a banana daiquiri instead, and it’s been awhile. The last time she took one of those was somewhere else, another life, really.

“Gin and tonic,” a man next to her orders, “The human equivalent, please.” ‘Gin and Tonic’ were words for many, many drinks, all variant on local customs.

“Are you alright, Doctor?”

She looks up at him, lifting her head from the counter, and blearily blinks her eyes. His teeth are so white, and she blinks. “Not all that good, Doctor.”

“Never took you for a drinker,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets. “That went out with the leather jacket, for me.”

“It was the ears, really,” the Doctor rubbed her forehead. “But I’m not, like you.”

“Mind if I take a seat?” the Doctor asks, his manner concerned, but not very. After all, he’s her and she’s him.”

“Go ahead,” she waves. The next Gargleblaster comes, redolent of everything.

The Doctor closes his sinuses. “That’s strong stuff, Doctor.”

“Of course it is,” the Doctor says, knocking half of it back. “I’ve been taking metabolizers for it.”

“Wise,” he replies, and when his gin and tonic comes, he pours it on her head.

The Doctor starts shedding tears. Not weeping, just, shedding tears. “Why did you do that?” she whines.

“Because you’ve got to keep hydrated somehow,” he replies, cheekily.

“Oh, you,” she punches him in the shoulder. “My hair is ruined!”

They narrow their eyes at each other. They call to the waiter, “Three banana daiquiris, eight White Russians, four Hanar Eyes, twelve bottles of Rum, and eight of whatever’s on tap.”

The bartender raises his eyebrows, or he would have, if he had true eyebrows. “Each?”

“Yes,” the Doctor said, “And three vodkas and three and a half Gargleblasters. It has to be even.”

(She does not win.)

 

 **+1**  
He likes this planet, though they don’t have anything near decent bananas. Still, it’s worth it to see the purple grass and urty-erudile sky. He likes this form, and his silly little Doctor steps out, springy and lively and perfect. He knows the feel of her hands over his consoles, under wires and fixing him up.

His pilot, he hums, and she hums back. She is his Doctor.

No matter what happens, no matter what funny little mortal and squishy beings (and not so squishy beings) she brings on board, she’ll always belong to him. Always.

So when she comes back, reeking of another ship and another universe that he hasn’t brought her to, he feels betrayed and refuses to talk to her for a week. He keeps the Blue Police Box, though. He likes it. His Doctor can’t figure it out, citing, “Men!” and huffing off.

It takes three worlds and four moons before he gives into his silly pilot’s demands.

Once, he appears right next another one. Type-40, old, old as he and just as experienced. The other seems very familiar. And out came his Doctor, and out came the other Doctor, and it all clicked.

He was very misguided for being jealous. Still, she should have told him! He wasn’t needed at all to translate, and while his pilot can be silent, she does not attempt to be often. She wasn’t. Speaking her native tongue must have been a joy.

One TARDIS talks to the other, and he’s glad his counterpart started it.

_They are terribly silly, aren’t they?_

_Yes, quite._

_What would they do without us?_

_Stuck on that mud planet, most like._

_Of course. The sillies._

_Completely._

_Oh, how rude of me! Hi, I’m Sexy, what does your thief call you?_

_I’m Gorgeous. She was more of a sweet talker than a thief._

_Nice to meet you~_

_Always nice to meet yourself, isn’t it?_

_Tell me, now, did yours ever get mixed up that with Captain?_

_Jacqueline? Of course, I could talk to you for days for days._

_I’ve got to tell you about Jack, then, haven’t I?_

_Oh, please, do._


End file.
